Life Classes
by otherhawk
Summary: People are prepared to do a lot for revenge. Sometimes that's serious business. Sometimes it really, really isn't. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: 16th piece of advent fic! First chapter of another new multichapter. But this one is only around five chapters long! And contains nudity! Which InSilva likes!**

** Disclaimer: I don't own it, as well you know**

* * *

Wyatt Traynor broke the rules.

He was an art forger with an excellent eye for detail and a taste for gambling. He'd owed some money to the wrong people, and instead of money they'd accepted a list of names. Clients. Friendly neighbourhood criminals.

Suddenly a lot of people found themselves being told that in order to keep the details of their little indiscretions out of the public view, all they had to give was half a million dollars.

Probably it would have worked. But one of the first people they tried it on was Molly Caldwell, and somehow the would-be-blackmailers found themselves in Federal custody before they knew what was going on. Later, they figured that they must have been the victims of one of the most elaborate sting operations in history. Truth was, Bobby didn't like people threatening his wife.

And there the matter might have rested. But Linus wanted to do some digging, and eventually that took him to Vegas and to Wyatt Traynor.

Wyatt Traynor broke the rules. And Linus didn't like people selling out his Mom.

Linus looked sideways at Danny as they followed Wyatt across the floor of the Bellagio, and he resisted the urge to say thank you again. Of course he knew that Danny – and everyone, for that matter – would be happy to drop everything and come help when he explained _why _he was going after Wyatt...but he hadn't even had to explain before they'd said yes. His word was enough.

"It's the same every day?" Danny checked.

"Uh, yes," Linus stuttered, torn out of his contemplations of gratitude. "He's in the art centre, taking care of the day job until seven, then he spends the rest of the night in the Bellagio, losing money. He's got a couple of bookies he owes money to, but that's all over the phone. Don't think there's a way in there." He looked enquiringly at Danny, just in case he was missing something. Wouldn't be the first time. But Danny didn't look like there was any great moment of genius dawning, and Linus was strangely disappointed.

"Mmmm," Danny said vaguely, looking across the roulette wheels with a sort of thoughtful vacancy that drove Linus to distraction.

"Maybe we could do something with his forging sideline?" Linus went on, optimism struggling through gritted teeth. "He only works on commission, but word is, his reputation matters."

"Mmmm," Danny agreed again, helpfully.

"Or there's the fundraiser night?" Linus suggested with quiet frustration. "All the big wheels in Vegas turning out to support local artists? There's got to be _something _there we can use...?"

"Mmmmm," Danny said slowly and he was doing it deliberately now, had to be.

"Right," he sighed. "Anyway. We should get out of here before – "

Two serious men in serious suits were standing in front of them, their faces blank behind dark glasses. "Sirs? Mr Benedict would like to inform you that he desires the pleasure of your company at your earliest convenience."

" – that happens," Linus finished with a grimace. There was probably a limit to how often you could take a man's money before you ended up on some kind of unwanted list. And he had a feeling they had crossed that limit some time ago.

Danny smiled charmingly at the serious men. "And if it's not convenient?" he asked politely.

"Oh, _them _you'll talk to," Linus muttered, and he wasn't surprised to be ignored.

The slightly larger of the men cracked his knuckles and grinned. "Then we get to spend time with you until it _is _convenient," he explained.

Danny turned to Linus and raised an eyebrow. "So, what do you think?" he asked conversationally. "Boredom or excitement?"

Linus glanced over at the two men. "I think it's going to be boring anyway," he commented, and his voice was light, and just because the threat wasn't empty didn't mean it was ever going to happen. Danny was never going to let it happen. "They don't look like they have much imagination."

Danny considered that for a moment, his lips pursed. Then he shook his head. "They've got to have more than Terry," he said decidedly.

The man who _hadn't _spoken cleared his throat meaningfully. "Mr Benedict is waiting. Mr Benedict doesn't _like _being kept waiting."

"Well," Danny said cheerfully. "I'd hate to give Mr Benedict any less than he expects."

Linus rolled his eyes as they followed the two serious men towards the very familiar office. Yeah. Like Terry Benedict _ever _knew what to expect with Danny.

* * *

Terry was sitting behind the desk, writing meticulously in his ledger. He hadn't looked up once from the moment Danny and Linus had been pushed into his office. And Danny would have found the whole _I'm-far-too-important-to-notice-you _act far more convincing if it hadn't been for the simple fact that in this day and age, he was pretty sure that there was nothing that a man in Terry's position would ever have to actually write down. Except, possibly, his grocery list. Huh. Maybe that was what Terry was doing.

He wished Rusty was here. The silent game of taking bets on exactly how long Terry would feel he had to ignore them for was far less fun with only one player. Linus would never pick up on it the way Rusty could, and Danny didn't feel _quite _like bringing it to Terry's attention by playing aloud just yet. Maybe if he wasn't so curious as to exactly what Terry had to say...

Still. Three minutes of silence and he was bored. Rusty wasn't the only one with a short attention span. He stood up slowly, wandered off and started inspecting the contents of Terry's office solemnly. Bookcase full of matching leather books with impressive titles and uncracked spines. He gave them a cursory glance, considering the impact of pulling one out at random, sitting back down, sticking his feet up on Terry's desk and starting to read. Oh, that was an idea he might have to come back to. If Terry didn't start talking soon.

Bookcase abandoned, he wandered over to the window and looked out. Huh. From here he could see at least five ways of getting into Terry's office undetected. At least two of them were even actually _possible. _Something to bear in mind for the future, maybe.

He was aware that Terry was writing a little slower. And, would you look at that, Terry was surreptitiously watching him in the reflection in the window. He gave an annoyingly cheery wave and watched Terry pretend that all his focus was on the grocery list in front of him.

Right. Danny took a pointedly cursory glance at the second hidden safe in the office, the one nobody was supposed to know about it, then he turned his attention to the painting next to it. Oh, that was interesting. He wasn't exactly an expert, but he knew enough to be certain that this was worthless. A not-especially-well executed oil sketch of a group of dancers. Unsigned too. Not something that he'd have expected to see in Terry's office – he _knew _that Terry had a history of paying more talented people to tell him what was good. He moved in to take a closer look at the picture and that was when Terry cracked.

"You're probably wondering why I had you brought here today," he began self-importantly.

_You're going to tell us who the murderer is? _Danny just managed to avoid saying it. If Rusty had been here, he probably wouldn't have restrained himself. Actually, if Rusty had been here, chances were good Rusty would have said it first. "I'm sure you're going to tell us, Terry," he said instead with a smile.

"I've been watching you watching Wyatt Traynor," Terry said, like he was expecting them to be surprised.

"Slow day?" Linus asked and Danny grinned. Oh, really, Linus was clearly falling under all kinds of bad influences.

"He likes to watch..." he explained to Linus in an undertone and he narrowly avoided laughing as Linus' eyes widened.

Terry ignored them. "It appears as though we have a common enemy. And in the words of the old Chinese proverb my enemy's enemy is my friend."

Yeah. Right up until the point where you sent a French clown with a boring plan to steal from your enemy's enemy and your enemy's enemy turned round and helped you become a better person. With Oprah. But that probably wasn't such a good subject to mention to Terry right now. Or ever, come to that.

"So what did he do to you?" Linus asked with interest.

"That is not your concern!" Terry said, just a little too quickly.

Danny grinned. "What _did _he do to you?" he wondered and really, he'd be quite happy to stay in Terry's office until he got an answer.

By the look on Terry's face he could see that. "He attempted to use my name to open doors for him in an attempt to sell some artwork of dubious origin," he explained, his face twisted with disdain.

Danny's eyes flickered to the painting on Terry's far wall. Dubious. Right.

"Not that one," Terry told him tightly.

Huh. Remained intriguing. "So what do you want us to do?"

"I want him exposed," Terry said harshly. "I want him run out of polite society."

Impolite society was so much more interesting anyway. "Uh huh. And you want us to do it."

"You're not doing anything you weren't doing anyway," Terry pointed out. "I just want it understood that you are working f...with me."

Which would do wonders for Terry's reputation. Still. Was worth playing along for the moment. It was always stupid to burn bridges before you were sure what was on the other side. And whether the ropes were flame-retardant. "Mmmm," he said thoughtfully.

"This fundraiser seems the perfect opportunity," Terry went on, and Danny could see the annoyance on Linus' face. "He's been trying to paint himself as a major player in Vegas. That and these exclusive art classes he's been giving to the movers and shakers."

Art classes? Again, Danny turned and looked at the painting on the far wall. Then he turned round and smiled at a suddenly-silent Terry. "Been discovering your inner artist, Terry?"

Linus was choking softly beside him. Danny wasn't sure if it was surprise or laughter. Probably both.

"Are you able to do something about Traynor or not?" Terry demanded furiously.

Danny smiled. "That would be telling."

* * *

Danny had called Rusty pretty much as soon as they'd escaped Benedict's office and they'd both disappeared for the rest of the night. Linus really wanted to point out that this was supposed to be _his _job. Shouldn't he have some idea what was going on?

He sighed. Why change the habits of a lifetime, after all? He was perfectly happy to wait patiently until Danny was willing to tell them everything.

Yeah, right. He wanted to know and he wanted to know now.

It wasn't like he'd been completely cut out of the loop at least. Danny had asked him to find out more about Wyatt's gambling habits and he, Frank and Turk had been talking to bookies all night. He'd learned a lot. Not least that Polka-Dot-Priest in the three thirty was a dead cert with odds of twelve to one. Not information to be discarded lightly.

As far as anyone could tell, Danny and Rusty had been gone all night, only reappearing around eleven the next day in time to everyone to meet in Danny's room in five. He was the last to arrive; everyone was sitting around, apparently waiting for him.

God, that was enough to make him feel nervous.

"So what have we got?" he asked eagerly, leaning back against the wall.

Danny smiled. "We're thinking a Memphis Switch."

"Oh." His eyes widened. "Night of the fundraiser?"

"Exactly," Danny nodded.

"With a twist?" he checked.

"And a slice of lemon," Rusty confirmed seriously.

"Reuben and Terry have already promised to provide the donations for the exhibit," Danny went on.

"Terry came up with some interesting ideas about what he's going to do to us if he doesn't get his paintings back," Rusty added brightly.

"Though I'm not sure the thing with the fountains is possible," Danny commented with a frown. "Seemed a little – "

" – oh, definitely," Rusty agreed. "Not to mention unhygienic. He's going to lose a star."

Linus had a feeling that he _really _didn't want to know.

"But that's not going to matter because Terry's going to get them back," Livingston said firmly. "Uh, right?"

"Of course," Danny and Rusty chorused innocently.

Reuben smiled. "You haven't asked what I'm going to do to you if I don't get mine back."

"See, Livingston?" Rusty said cheerfully. "There's what you should really be worried about."

"I'm perfectly capable of worrying about multiple things at once, thank you very much," Livingston said with dignity.

Linus cleared his throat. "Uh, the Memphis Switch?" he prompted.

"Right," Danny nodded. "We're going to need someone on the inside to make the switch – "

" – someone else to get Wyatt interested in the press – " Rusty cut in.

" – and someone else else," Danny finished. "These art classes – "

" – exclusive – " Rusty put in. "Expensive."

"And they're going to be – "

" – four more classes until the fundraiser – "

" – lots of time."

They were looking at him expectantly. "You want me to sign up?"

They exchanged a long look and there was a distinct feeling of dread creeping up on Linus. "Well – " Danny temporised.

" – that only gets you so far into the building," Rusty explained.

Danny nodded. "When the class is done – "

" – no reason for you to linger," Rusty added.

"No, we thought – "

" – we _thought _– "

" – we need someone in a different sort of position," Danny explained, sliding a flyer across the table.

Linus craned over and stared at it.

_Wanted: nude models for life classes. All applicants welcome._

He stared a little more. He wasn't the only one.

"Any volunteers?" Rusty asked, leaning back lazily in his chair.

"This is what Benedict's in to?" Reuben spluttered. "You gotta be kidding!"  
"Virgil wants to do it!" Turk yelled.

"Least they'd take me," Virgil rounded on him. "They'd take one look at you and send you back to the zoo."

"Not me, not me, not me," Livingston was muttering while Yen posed beside him and Basher surreptitiously started to take bets.

"What do you think, kid?" Danny asked brightly. "It is your job, after all. You up for it?"

His mouth was working furiously but no sound was coming out. Would he...was he...they wanted him to...they were really asking him to...

He could do this. Really, he could do this. "Okay," he squeaked, and then he cleared his throat. "Okay," he said again in a more normal tone of voice.

Frank shook his head unhappily. "No favour you do for your Mom should ever involve getting naked."

Linus was inclined to agree. Not that he was going to admit that.

"Benedict's going to be there," Turk added with a peculiar mixture of amusement, sympathy and horror. "He's going to see your package."

Yen cut in with an entirely unambiguous comment to the effect that Linus had better really, _really _hope that the room had central heating.

Oh, god. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of...but he didn't even like taking his shirt off in public. And he really didn't want Terry Benedict to find out whether or not he had something to be ashamed of...he'd never be able to look Benedict in the eye again. He'd have to avoid Vegas for the rest of his life.

He could do this...Oh, good lord, suppose he started blushing? Suppose...

_He could do this. _He wasn't going to let Mom down and he really wasn't going to let Danny and Rusty see him embarrassed and flustered. Not this time round.

"No, it's cool," he said with insistent nonchalance. "I can do this. It'll be easy. I want to do this, even. I'm sure it'll be very enjoyable and..." He stopped talking quickly, aware that he was starting to blush and everyone was staring at him. "That's not what I meant," he muttered.

"Calm down, kid," Danny said with a grin. "Wyatt's already hired Rusty for the next set of classes."

Oh. "So all that was just...come _on." _He shook his head. "Can't you guys grow up?"

"There's been no sign of it so far," Saul commented gloomily.

"And Rusty's doing the modelling?" Basher checked with a frown.

Danny shrugged. "He's the only exhibitionist we've got."

"I am not an exhibitionist," Rusty muttered, but no one seemed to be listening.

"Dude, Benedict's going to see your package," Virgil informed Rusty solemnly.

Linus glanced at Yen. "Aren't you going to tell _him _you hope the room is warm?"

Yen shrugged carelessly and said something short and pithy.

Linus' lips tightened. "Right."

"Moving on," Danny cut in quickly. "Rusty can handle most things in the art centre, but we're going to need someone else to act as ringer."

"And to keep an eye on Benedict, right?" Reuben added.

"Right," Danny agreed. "Linus? You seemed happy enough to get naked - you willing to do some painting instead?"

That seemed easier...right up until the moment when he remembered what...or rather _who..._and _what.._he'd be painting.

Still he was almost entirely completely certain that Danny was serious this time, so he nodded tightly. "Sure. What am I roping him into?"

Danny smiled. "So far we're hitting his professional reputations - "

" - both of them - " Rusty added.

" - and his social ambitions. We want his money too," Danny said, smiling some more.

Seemed reasonable. "The gambling?" he guessed. "A wire game?"

"Slightly more complicated than that," Rusty told him calmly.

Of course. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. When wasn't it?

"Frank? You up for running a crooked gambling hell?" Danny checked.

"Bash? We're going to need a lot of noise," Rusty added.

Both men nodded.

_Slightly _more complicated. Right.

* * *

"You are okay with this, right, Rus'?" Danny asked as they strolled down the strip in search of hot fudge sundaes and triple espresso.

Rusty shot him a look. "You want to know if I'm okay with taking my clothes off in front of Terry Benedict? And Linus? And who knows who else?"

"Yeah," Danny nodded expectantly. "That's what I want to know."

"Sure," Rusty said with a shrug. "Why not?" He wasn't exactly looking forward to it, but he'd done stranger things in his time. Not all of them for good reasons. It didn't really bother him.

"Exhibitionist," Danny accused lightly.

"I'm not," Rusty insisted again, mildly.

"Uh huh," Danny narrowed his eyes. "We back to considering how many people have seen you naked?"

"An exhibitionist is someone who gets turned on by being watched," Rusty said calmly. "If I was an exhibitionist we'd be looking at a whole other problem here."

"Oh." Danny seemed to think about that for a moment. "Oh, that'd have to make it harder - "

" - excuse me?" he interrupted.

" - to paint," Danny finished, ignoring him.

"So what brought this on?" Rusty wondered after a second. "Do I seem particularly insecure?"

Danny grinned. "Never. No, just...Linus." He shrugged.

Ah. Rusty nodded understandingly. The kid's horror and dread had been entirely genuine. Funny as fuck, but only because they were never going to make him go through with it. "Since when am I Linus?"

Danny smiled. "You're not."

* * *

Had to figure things were going well. According to Reuben, Wyatt had jumped at the chance of displaying some real art treasures at the fundraiser and Reuben and Terry had volunteered to lend him two or three paintings for the night. Terry's recent reputation for wanting to give something to the community counted for something.

Not with Reuben, naturally. He'd come back, brimming with frustrated indignation. Seemingly Terry had grabbed him a second before they went in, full of self-importance and imagined impressiveness and hissed "Follow my lead. I'll show you how it should be done."

Danny had to think that Terry was letting all this go to his head a little. Maybe he should be taking acting classes instead. At any rate it had taken him, Rusty, Saul and an expensive bottle of malt before Reuben was prepared to concede that maybe they didn't have to torpedo Terry _quite _yet.

It was definitely on the table though. Danny hadn't liked the look Terry had worn when they'd been explaining Rusty's presence in the class today one little bit.

Lip curled, contempt in his eyes. "I didn't know your hotel was doing that badly, Ryan. My condolences."

Rusty smiled lazily. "You're right, Terry," he'd murmured softly. "Maybe I'm thinking too small. Perhaps I should consider robbing a casino or three instead."

Terry had paled and his expression had briefly cycled through anxiety and outrage before settling on frustrated anger and Danny was appeased. For the moment, anyway. Enough to smile at Terry and let him silently seethe at the untouchable and the invincible.

Seemed like they could trust Terry to play his part though, right up until the moment that he inevitably got it into his head to screw them over. If Terry was any more predictable he'd be Elmer Fudd.

Huh. Mental note. Keep Terry away from blunderbusses.

"You feeling all artistic?" he asked Linus lightly, as Linus hovered in the doorway.

Linus nodded. "Uh, yes. I guess." He hesitated. "You think Wyatt's going to get suspicious that I can't paint?"

"Fake it," Rusty advised, and Linus looked like he was desperately trying to figure out _how._

"You'll be fine, don't worry," Danny said, and Linus was still looking doubtful. Time to change tacks. "You get stuck, just imagine Rusty in his underwear."

Linus blinked hard, evidently still trying to come to grips with the idea that he was going to be staring at Rusty naked for the next three hours. "Oh, God."

Danny felt the invisible grin and he carefully didn't look at Rusty.

"Seriously though," Rusty warned. "Just make sure - "  
" - that you actually have paint on your brush," Danny finished his face blank and unfriendly.

Linus looked frantically from him to Rusty, colouring rapidly. "I wasn't...I couldn't...I wouldn't..."

He broke off, glaring at them as they laughed.

* * *

**So, what did you think? **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Day 21 of Advent Fic. Contains 100% more naked!Rusty**

* * *

This might just be the most boring thing Rusty had ever done. Certainly it was the most boring thing he'd ever done with his clothes off. Well, actually, there had been that one night with Greg Watson...

Three hours of standing on a dais with his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his head and so far he'd figured out the most effective staff rotas for the next three months, given serious consideration to overhauling the room service menu and figured out four ways to rob his own hotel that he _really _had to do something about. Micromanaging in the nude. Reuben wouldn't approve.

He'd best get used to it. Still had three more nights to go. Oh, he was going to be bored stiff...huh. He should've phrased that differently.

Still, it had also given him time to plan out, yet again, the set-up for the gambling den and everything that Frank and the twins were going to have to do. Maybe this was what all life models did.

Or maybe they all just focused on the expressions of the artists. Because right now, he was still torn between whether Linus or Terry was amusing him more. Terry was doing his best to look aloof and disdainful, but Rusty couldn't help but notice that he was doing his very best to avoid eye contact. Linus, on the other hand...

Wyatt paused just behind Linus and looked critically at the canvas. "Samuel, you need to paint the entire model. It looks like you barely spent twenty seconds on the genitals."

Oh, Rusty could think of a dozen different answers to that.

Linus, on the other hand, was looking decidedly uncertain. "Uh, well, you see..." he tried, and Rusty could hear the endearing embarrassment in his voice. Making sure Samuel stood out to Wyatt. Making sure Samuel was someone Wyatt would be certain he could take advantage of. And, of course, it served to cover the simple fact that there were parts of Rusty that Linus _really _wasn't inclined to look at.

"You mustn't get hung up about these things, Samuel," Wyatt chided, taking the brush out of Linus' hand, and looking Rusty up and down critically. "Don't think of the subject as _human, _think of him as a collection of lines and shadows."

Huh. He'd been called a great many things in his time...

* * *

Three hours, and Linus had rarely been quite so glad that something was over.

On the other side of the room, Rusty was calmly slipping into some kind of silk dressing gown and Linus made sure not to pay too much attention. No connection between them, after all. Really, he was just glad that Rusty was wearing _something _now. That had been...disturbing.

Terry was already packed up and heading out. Apparently he didn't hang around after the class. Not into socialising. Linus wasn't surprised. And he was kind of glad – seeing Terry Benedict, paintbrush in hand was also disturbing.

He waited until he saw Wyatt walking up to him, before he reached into his pocket and hit send.

An instant later and his phone rang. He shot Wyatt an apologetic look and answered it.

"Hello...yeah...yeah...you _certain?" _he asked anxiously. "Well, yeah, but how sure is a sure thing?..._really?..._Okay then. I'll be there tonight. You think fifty thou should...yeah. Yeah, you're right, I'll make it a hundred."

He snapped his phone closed and smiled at Wyatt who was pretending not to be listening. "That was a fantastic class, Wyatt. I really feel like my eyes have been opened."

"Mmm? Oh, yes, of course, Samuel, you're doing very well." Wyatt was looking thoughtful.

Good.

* * *

"You did well today, Tommy," Wyatt said as Rusty wandered around the room checking out the pictures. Mostly pretty flattering. Mostly. "You held the pose just fine."

"Thanks, Mr Traynor," he said with an ingratiating smile.

"You done any modelling before?" Wyatt wondered.

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "But I've been interested in art for the last few years. I took a career break, you know? Want to get closer to what really matters. I took up sketching in Nepal."

"Uh huh," Wyatt nodded. "Well, there might be more work for you here, if you're interested. Come by tomorrow and we'll see about booking you in for another couple of sittings."

He smiled happily. "Really? And do you think that maybe you could take a look at my sketches sometime?"

"Sure," Wyatt waved a hand dismissively. "Why not?"

"Thank you!" he said again, smiling like an idiot, and now he had a perfect excuse to hang around the art centre any time he liked.

* * *

"So, was it cold in there?" Danny wondered, as they lay on his bed and watched Titanic. Danny had picked it specially.

"Not judging by the way Linus was blushing," Rusty said, absently eating a bowl of Lucky Charms. Danny wasn't even going to ask.

There was a pause. "You think Wyatt – "

" – oh he's interested," Rusty assured him. "He was looking at Linus like he was a leprechaun."

"Uh huh." He thought for a moment. "So is the gambling gold or – "

" – marshmallows," Rusty interrupted. "Definitely marshmallows."

"Right."

Another brief silence. "We're all set with the bookies?" Rusty asked.

Danny gave him a semi-offended look. "Of course." Linus had come up with three names that Wyatt used regularly and another five that he might go to. And Danny had spoken to all of them. None of them were going to be taking Wyatt's business anymore. "So now I'll be the bad guy and you'll be naked."

"Think that's a tagline for a sitcom," Rusty commented.

They watched the movie some more. "Next time you should wear a necklace," Danny told him.

"Well, at least it would give Linus something else to look at," Rusty agreed.

* * *

Terry was finding this whole situation frustrating. He'd done his best to contain his initial fury at Traynor, not particularly wanting the details of his hobby spread around town. He had a reputation to maintain and being a man of culture was only a very little of it. There was a difference between patronising the arts and going soft.

Instead he'd continued the classes and he had been still in the midst of searching for a way to _truly _express his displeasure when he'd been told of Ocean's interest in Traynor.

For once, seeing Ocean and his band of freaks had been a happy coincidence.

It was endlessly aggravating but he found himself with no real doubt that their plans would work. He'd watched the lot of them for a long time now. In spite of all the stupid remarks and ridiculous jokes, in spite of every moment wasted on pointless squabbles and hilarity...in spite of all that, they seemed close to unbeatable.

And that meant that he had to leave them alone for the duration of this job. Oh, he could – and would – do his best to make them uncomfortable, but he couldn't hinder them in any way.

Not that he was having much success making them uncomfortable either. Every sneer and snide remark was bouncing off that wall of insufferable smugness. And he might have been looking forward to seeing Ryan naked and vulnerable, but the man seemed just as relaxed and at ease as he did fully dressed in one of his ridiculous suits!

Nevertheless, he'd keep trying. The point, after all, was to ensure they had no suspicions as to his _real _plans for them.

* * *

Danny had made himself comfortable behind Wyatt's desk. All about the effect. Easy enough to get into the art centre unnoticed, after Rusty had told him the code for the door. Easy enough to get into Wyatt's office. And of course, perfectly easy to sit with his feet up on Wyatt's desk in the dark and wait.

The door opened and the light snapped on and Wyatt stood in the doorway, starting at him.

Danny looked up and smiled. "Hi," he said. "My name is Danny Ocean and I've got a proposition for you."

Wyatt gaped at him.

"Why don't you come in and sit down?" Danny suggested.

Somewhat to his relief, Wyatt did so, closing the door behind him. "Danny..._the _Danny Ocean?" he asked, licking his lips nervously.

"Never met another one," he said lightly.

"You're a legend in this town," Wyatt said, blinking heavily. "What do you want from me?"

"I hear you've got access to some paintings," he said easily. "And it occurs to me that this would be an excellent opportunity for you to make some copies. You give the paintings back to Benedict and Tishkoff and I make the switch later. Everyone's happy."

"I always heard you were friends with Tishkoff?" Wyatt asked hesitantly.

He shrugged. "Reuben's a great guy. But business is business."

Wyatt grinned. "You're a man after my own heart, Mr Ocean."

Uh huh. That was what they were counting on. "Danny. Please," he said with an easy smile. "And if you can make copies of the Matisse and the Van Gogh by next Friday I'll give you two hundred thousand."

Wyatt pursed his lips. "The fundraiser is Saturday...the paintings are here now...make it three hundred and we've got a deal."

Damn. He'd bet Rusty that Wyatt would demand a half million. Where was he going to get a box of handmade Swiss chocolates at this hour?

* * *

This, Rusty thought, as he hefted the last of the floor tiles into place, was hard work. He'd have to take a quick shower before he headed back to the Art Centre. No one wanted to paint a man who looked like he'd spent the day building a gambling hell, did they?

Maybe they did. Who was he to argue? He'd spent yesterday morning sprawled naked on a bed, half covered with a silk sheet, a shiny red apple held to his mouth while Wyatt painted him, and he just wasn't so very sure it was art. Didn't exactly _feel _like art.

But afterwards he'd been let into Wyatt's office to sign a contract, and he'd got a good look at Wyatt's safe and a better look at his office decorations. And that had been handy at least.

"So that's you done for the day, then?" Turk asked him, leaning against the wall that was still wobbling alarmingly. They'd need to work on that tomorrow. "You're off to strip for Linus leaving the rest of us to do the hard work."

He grinned. "You want to swap?" he invited.

Turk pursed his lips. "I could. I've got a good body. I work out and I eat right."

"You writing a profile for a dating agency or something?" Rusty asked interestedly. "Cos I'm not sure that Linus is interested in you that way."

"I'm just saying," Turk went on, rolling his eyes. "I think you've got the easy bit."

"Uh huh," Rusty kept grinning. "Well, I've got to get going."

He took one last look around the warehouse before he left. Floor was down. The office walls were taking shape. The tables and the screens were in the back just waiting to be installed. They should have everything in shape for when Linus roped Wyatt properly. They _would, _in fact. Even if he had to work from now till then.

Somewhat to his surprise, Danny was waiting just outside the warehouse with a large banana milkshake, which he handed to Rusty without even a teasing comment.

"Okay," he said slowly. "What's happened?"

Danny looked faintly injured. "I can't just be nice to you?"

"Out of nowhere?" Rusty glanced sideways at him. "You still conflicted about the part where you're making me strip for money?"

He took another couple of steps before he realised that Danny wasn't following.

In fact, Danny was just staring at him. "Not. Funny."

With a grimace, he signalled his apology. "What then?" he asked, as they started walking again.

"Wyatt knew who I was," Danny said quietly.

Rusty nodded. "At this stage, I think everyone knows who you are." Everyone in their line of work anyway. A lifetime of genius and luck and hard work, and Danny was a legend for a _reason._

They walked in silence for a few steps. "He believed me when I told him I wanted to steal Reuben's paintings," Danny said eventually.

Oh. He sighed. "Just because everyone knows who you are doesn't mean they know who you _are,_" he pointed out gently.

Danny smiled at him and took the milkshake out of his hand and took a sip. "How do you drink this stuff?"

"Through the straw," Rusty told him, grabbing the drink back. "You check in with Livingston and Basher? They gonna have it finished in time?"

"Well, I put my head round the door," Danny said with a shrug. "I got yelled at." He grinned. "You think that's a good sign?"

"It's not a bad sign," he said. It actually wasn't and they both knew that. If Livingston and Basher _honestly _thought they were going to let them down, they'd have heard about it by now. "And Saul's getting Falcon's wardrobe straight."

"Everything's coming together," Danny said.

"Yeah," Rusty nodded. For the moment.

* * *

This wasn't getting any less embarrassing.

There was part of Linus that had been hoping that the whole painting-Rusty-naked thing would be less awkward the second time around.

It wasn't.

He had the urge to hide behind the canvas every time he thought Rusty might even be glancing his way. Not that Rusty was moving around a whole lot. In fact, he was standing perfectly still, the way he'd presumably been told to. Actually, that was a little disturbing. He didn't think he'd ever seen Rusty be so still. And when he looked at Rusty's eyes – which, after all, he had to do to paint them, and of all the parts of Rusty's body he had to stare at, that was surprisingly among the weirdest – it was almost like it wasn't Rusty looking out.

He couldn't help but wonder what Rusty was _thinking _during all of this. Surely he couldn't really be as comfortable with it as he said he was? If it was Linus he'd be trying not to die of embarrassment every step of the way.

Whether he was or not, it just made Linus even more impossibly grateful than he had been before. This was all for him, after all. For Mom and for him and he was so very thankful. He didn't know how to express it. Wasn't like a fruit basket or something exactly covered this situation. Any favour that involved getting naked...that was surely in some whole other league. And of course, just trying to _tell _them that he was grateful would never work. No way he'd get through any kind of speech without getting laughed at. Just the way that they were. He could already imagine the look that Rusty would give him, and he was blushing just at the _thought._

Mom had phoned him today, which was good. She was fine, of course. Not like she'd actually been hurt by this whole thing, just that she _could _have been. Just that Wyatt Traynor, that man there, just across the room, showing Terry Benedict how to paint Rusty's thighs, Wyatt Traynor had broken the rules and sold out Mom, and whenever he thought of that Linus wanted to throw himself at the man and break his nose.

He only managed to restrain himself by remembering that while that would be momentarily _satisfying, _what they were doing now would last a whole lot longer.

He'd lied to Mom, of course. When she asked if he was up to anything interesting. He'd just said he was with the guys in Vegas, suggested that it was just a social thing. Really, he _thought _she'd believe him. Though it was difficult to know for certain. At any rate, she'd probably figured that it wouldn't stay that way for long. As long as she didn't know the target it was alright.

Of course, Wyatt was looking a little jumpy today. Noticeably more twitchy than he had last time around. Danny had made the calls to the bookies, and between them, Terry and Reuben had got them blacklisted from most places on the Strip.

There was nowhere for Wyatt to gamble and it seemed like it was having an effect.

Normally Linus would feel bad about that.

Not this time.

"That's it for tonight," Wyatt announced, absently wiping his brow. "You're all making progress. Well done."

He packed up his stuff quickly and said goodbye to his classmates, taking a moment to say a cheery thank you to Wyatt.

Then he walked past him slowly, talking on his cellphone. "If he's your buddy we can get him in alright," he said and laughed. "No, it doesn't matter where he's banned from. If he's got the cash and the recommendation, he can play in the club."

He sped up the moment he got out the door, practically sprinting down the corridor, so when Wyatt opened the door and called anxiously after him, he'd already vanished round the corner.

Oh, he was set for next time.

* * *

The phone call came just as he was on the urge of matching _exactly _the blue that Van Gogh used for his eyes. He was consequently just a _little _abrupt annoyed when he answered the phone. Genius, after all, should never be interrupted. _"What?"_

"Oh, good afternoon," a genial voice greeted him. "My name is Richard Falcon. I'm with Art in America."

Wyatt sat up a little straighter. A journalist from Art in America? This was huge! "Good afternoon, Mr Falcon," he said obsequiously. "I'm a huge fan. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Falcon trilled. "Very kind indeed. I'm currently writing an article on the value of art among the nouveau rich – how art is being spread to the new movers and shakers in other words. I've been following your work with some interest. This fundraiser for the Vegas glitterati. Such a clever idea. It could be exactly what I need to really make the article go with a bang. How would you feel about my attending and writing a piece? Maybe a short interview, if you're not too busy, just to really set the scene. How does that sound?"

That sounded like money and free publicity and a shot at the big time all rolled into one. "Of course, let me just check if we have any tickets left," he said, covering the mouthpiece. He counted to twenty. Slowly. Mustn't sound too eager, mustn't seem too desperate, mustn't seem like this was _anything _unusual. He cleared his throat. "Oh, it looks like we actually don't have anything left. I'll tell you what. Since it's for Art in America, why don't you attend as my personal guest? Where are you staying? I'll have the details sent over."

"The Bellagio," Falcon answered promptly.

"Oh, Terry's place," he said, as nonchalantly as he could. "Terry Benedict – the owner, you know – he's a close personal friend of mine. A real sweetheart, as a matter of fact. Mention my name." There. _That _should impress.

"I shall certainly mention you if I happen to see Mr Benedict," Falcon agreed. "It has been a pleasure talking to you, Mr Traynor. I look forwards to Saturday night."

"As do I, Mr Falcon," he answered truthfully. "Goodbye."

He stared exuberantly at the phone once he'd hung up.

This was _fantastic._

He was really moving up in the world. This was just the break he needed. The fundraiser was going to get him moving in the right circles, and with the right publicity it would go like a dream. And his exclusive classes were paying off nicely too – in more ways than one, actually. He'd managed to get a buyer for that 'Monet' earlier on the basis that anyone who knew Terry Benedict couldn't _possibly _be a thief. Not to mention that commission from Danny Ocean. He was hitting the big time in his legitimate and illegitimate work. And it was a small point, next to everything else, but his new painting was turning out just fine. That new model was exquisite _and _cheap. Perfect, in other words.

On the whole, life was good. Now if only he could solve his problems with the bookies...

He didn't know _what _was going on.

Yes, he'd had that problem a few months back and for a while he'd owed more money than most people could imagine, but he'd taken care of that. He'd thought laterally and used his initiative and that had all worked out, and right now he didn't owe _that _much. Not enough to explain why no one was taking his calls.

And he wasn't getting in to the casinos either and that _really _made no sense. He hadn't done anything. If only he really had the relationship with Benedict that he pretended, he knew he could make all this go away. But he doubted that Benedict personally knew anything about it, and he really didn't want to draw his attention to it.

But it had been a few days now since he'd been able to place a bet and he was feeling antsy. Not that he had a problem or anything. He just missed the thrill of the chase was all. He'd even tried one of those online poker sites, but every time he got to the page his internet connection would randomly cut out. He'd tried calling the company but they'd just told him they couldn't see a problem. Useless bastards.

He really wanted to do some gambling. In this town, that should be easy.

That new guy in his evening class though. Samuel. He'd been talking about some private club. It had sounded _promising._ Maybe he'd try and get an invite after the next class.

Had to be worth a shot. He was going crazy here.

* * *

Terry sat back in his chair and regarded them coldly. Just the same way he would look at anyone who was working for him.

"Report," he said curtly, relishing the feeling of command.

Ocean raised and eyebrow and Ryan grinned inanely, but they didn't actually challenge him.

"We're set," Ryan said with a shrug.

Terry looked at him for a long moment.

"More or less," he amended with another grin, and Terry ground his teeth. He _knew _Ryan wasn't stupid. Knew that the vague and the imprecise was an act designed to annoy him. Unfortunately, it succeeded.

"We're set with the bookies and the fundraiser," Ocean added. "And we'll swap the fakes for the real paintings the night before."

He nodded thoughtfully. That was good. He felt like was controlling a military operation here. "And you will plant the paintings in his personal studio that night," he stated.

They exchanged an expressionless look.

"No."

"No."

His lips thinned. "The agreement was that – "

" – there are a lot of people walking in and out of that studio, Terry," Ocean said patiently. "Do you really think that no one is going to notice if couple of priceless paintings show up?"

He was not amused. "Your ingenuity isn't up to solving that little problem, Ocean? Perhaps I should have called Toulour." Nothing like mentioning a rival to encourage activity.

"Oh, you could do that," Ryan nodded. "Obviously you could do that. I mean – "

" – it worked out so well last time, didn't it?" Ocean finished. "I can see you have all of this thought out, Terry. We'll – "

" – oh, we'll just leave you to it, "Ryan agreed, and they both stood up and headed quickly for the door.

"Stop!" Terry commanded, and it was meant to sound imperious, not pleading.

They stopped and turned to look at him with twin expressions of gentle inquiry.

"Since you're here I might as well use you," he said reluctantly, and if they backed out he would have nothing, but if _he _backed out they would have to start over, and all of this was a ridiculous game of bluffs. And they'd called his.

"Well, that's very kind of you, Terry," Ocean nodded.

"So what are you doing about planting the paintings?" he asked, like nothing had happened.

"We're doing it during the fundraiser," Ryan said simply. "Not like anyone will be paying attention."

He nodded and made a mental note and the last pieces of the jigsaw was falling into place.

"Very well," he said dismissively. "If that is everything, you may go."

Ryan grinned again, and they turned and walked back towards the door.

They carefully waited until the door was open and the people waiting outside – his PA, his head of security, his next appointment – could hear before talking.

"You know," Ocean said to Ryan loudly. "Wyatt was right."

"Oh, yes," Ryan nodded. "Terry really isa complete _sweetheart_."

Terry scowled as the soft explosion of laughter came from his outer office.

* * *

"Everything going to be ready?" Danny asked Marc, and he practically had to hold the phone away from his ear at the response. Well, that was definite at least. "Alright, alright, I had to ask." More indignation. Evidently the artistic temperament was out in force. "Rusty will pick them up on Saturday morning." He didn't want it to be him at any rate. Not until Marc had calmed down a bit.

He hung up the phone to more indignation, and Rusty glanced across the room from where he was distressing a blackjack table and pursed his lips. Danny nodded with an invisible hint of a sigh. Rusty grinned.

Might have known he wasn't going to get any sympathy.

Still, at least the place was looking good. Livingston had just finished up installing the big screen TVs and was busy sorting out the recording feed, which seemed to involve more wires than could possibly be healthy. Turk and Virgil were sanding down the counter and arguing about...actually, Virgil seemed to be arguing about NASCAR while Turk was arguing about melons. Possibly. Basher was sorting out the noise on the door while Yen watched with a whole lot of plaster. Danny wasn't exactly sure what he was planning on doing, but then he wasn't sure if _Yen _knew exactly what he was planning on doing. No one seemed alarmed, so it was probably just fine. And Rusty and Frank were making sure that nothing looked too new.

All in all, he had to think that things were going just fine.

As long as Linus played his part, they should have no problems here.

Everything else was looking smooth too. Saul was comfortably settled in as Richard Falcon, even _if _Wyatt chose to check him out – and the way Danny read him, that was unlikely – everything would check out.

The art centre – security wasn't up too much, but Rusty would take care of it just as soon as Livingston got round to it. Which would be after he'd taken care of the clever stuff here. And in between monitoring Wyatt's internet use. And doing a hundred other clever things that Danny might just get around to thanking him for one of these days.

The only loose end was Terry Benedict. And that was...they'd gone over it last night, him and Rusty, maybe and perhaps and what-ifs spiralling in impossible circles. Either they were two steps ahead or they were one step behind. And they wouldn't know for certain until it was already too late.

Rusty wandered over to him, the blackjack table apparently miserable enough to be going on with. "You get – "

" –yeah," he nodded reluctantly. "Tess couriered it last night." He took the sketch book out of the bag at his feet and held it out slowly.

Rusty took it carefully. "I'll take care of it, Danny," he promised.

"I know." And he did. Not like he needed the reassurance. And he'd made sure that Tess sent the old sketchbook that she was _least _attached to, just in case. But that didn't alter how he felt. He sighed. "I'm just saying, if it's a choice between you and the sketchbook..."

"Got it," Rusty nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry this chapter has taken a while, I've been consistently distracted. I blame InSilva. Mostly because she's not here to defend herself...Also this is a slightly shorter chapter than previous, as it was getting crowded, so the next chapter is all but written and I'll post it next week. And that, for once, is a promise.**

* * *

All the way through class that evening Wyatt kept shooting him these little knowing glances. Brief and ingratiating. Linus figured that Wyatt _really _didn't want to risk him changing his mind.

He'd met Wyatt at lunchtime accidentally-on-purpose. Rusty had found out Wyatt's diary for the next week, apparently by hanging around his office with a sketchbook and annoying him to the point of tears. Linus _thought _that was an exaggeration but he couldn't be absolutely sure. Rusty was after all _unbelievably _aggravating.

The point was he'd managed to be there before Wyatt, sitting at the bar, reading the racing pages and making careful notes.

And Wyatt hadn't even hesitated before he sat down uninvited.

"Hi there, Samuel," he said cheerfully.

Linus looked up with a sigh of irritation and blinked a couple of times before he let recognition dawn. "Oh, Wyatt. Fancy seeing you here. How's it going? I'm looking forward to the class tonight."

"That's good," Wyatt said, glancing nervously as Linus laid the paper down on the bar. He forced himself to tear his eyes away. "I think you're really making progress. You're coming along nicely, in fact."

"You really think so?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh, definitely," Wyatt answered quickly. "You're a natural, no question."

Wow. He was laying it on a little thick. Honestly, Linus was perfectly ready to admit, he was pretty terrible.

They talked for a while and several drinks about the art class and about Linus' painting and Linus deliberately kept the conversation away from any mention of gambling. Wyatt _had _to think it came from him. They'd given him all the lead in he could ask for, surely by this stage he couldn't resist.

"So, you like sport?" Wyatt asked abruptly, nodding towards the paper.

"I like some action," Linus admitted, with an uneasy nonchalance that was begging to be asked more questions.

"Where do you gamble?" Wyatt asked.

He chuckled. "Oh, I don't, uh, gamble. I _win._"

"I know a lot of guys who say that," Wyatt said, leaning back dismissively.

"No," Linus insisted, trying to impress. "I mean, I really win. I got this friend, you see? And he gives me these tips. Last minute, on the sly. And I put money on for me and a couple of friends, sometimes, and he gets his cut and _every_body wins."

Wyatt stared at him and Linus could see the gleam in his eyes. "Don't you ever get caught?"

"No," he said with a shrug. "Well, uh, I don't go to the big places you see. Private members clubs. Unlicensed private members clubs, if you know what I mean. All under the table, they only deal in cash. Lots of money and they're _much _less likely to accuse their members of anything underhand. And then when I get kicked out or they get shut down, I move onto the next one. Simple."

Wyatt was still staring and his hands were trembling slightly. A sure thing in front of a man who couldn't say no. There was only one way this was going to go. "Could I...do you think you could cut me in?"

"Sure," Linus said generously, tipping his glass towards him.

He'd got Wyatt well and truly on the hook. So much so that now, in class, it was pretty clear that his mind was on afterwards and the club.

Which gave Terry plenty of opportunity to speak up.

"I have to wonder what would make someone turn to nude modelling, don't you?" he asked loudly, ostensibly talking to Dennis, the man next to him. "I mean, I suppose for the young and attractive it might be just about understandable. A chance to show off. But for those who are getting older?" He looked pointedly at Rusty. "It seems ludicrous."

Dennis laughed raucously. "Suppose you have a point there. You wouldn't catch _me _taking my clothes off in front of a bunch of strangers. No matter how much money there was in it."

"Precisely," Terry smiled coldly. "It's a trick for the desperate and pathetic. A trick for those who are growing too past it to turn tricks, you might say."

Rusty was staying absolutely still. Keeping the pose just like he had with every class so far and he was giving no indication that he'd even _heard _a word Terry said.

Linus bit his lip hard and reminded himself that he was in character and that he had to stay in character. He glanced over at Wyatt, hoping he was looking disapproving. Because if he _was _then Linus had a couple of things he wouldn't mind saying to Terry.

Unfortunately, Wyatt didn't look like he cared about the conversation one way or the other.

Dennis laughed again. "I don't see why we can't get a younger model," he said pensively. "With nicer breasts."

"I don't know..." Terry said slowly, craning his head over the top of his easel. "If you ask me, he's got the beginnings of a very nice pair indeed. The middle aged spread. What comes of letting yourself go. I know the sort. Probably eats all the time and never exercises. No wonder he's putting on weight."

Oh, that was just...Linus had been spending rather more time staring at Rusty's naked body lately than he ever had before. And this wasn't even_ close _to true. And Terry was saying it _now _because he knew Rusty would _never _answer back. He was just digging away at Rusty's self control, and Linus was fuming.

"I see a lot of these ageing playboys in the casino," Terry went on, his lip curled. "Convinced that they still look just as good today as they did twenty years ago. It's sad, really. Look, he even has a grey hair."

Terry pointed and Linus looked automatically.

He wasn't pointing at Rusty's head.

Damn it, he couldn't _wait _until this con was over.

* * *

From the outside Stars didn't look like much. A nondescript warehouse, just off the strip, and Wyatt turned to look at Samuel, disappointed. "That's _it_?" he asked.

Samuel grinned. "Wait till we get inside," he said reassuringly, and he rapped smartly on the door. A second later and a panel slid sideways and a pair of eyes peered out at them suspiciously. "Yes?"

"Swordfish," Samuel said with confidence and a moment after the door swung open and they stepped inside.

And from the inside it was far more impressive.

He looked round at the roulette wheel, the blackjack table, the massive TV showing horse racing, the people crowded round it...it was like a mini casino. A regular Aladdin's cave. He smiled. "Do you think you could get me a membership here?"

"Sure," Samuel said with a shrug. "Like I said, 's not what I use the place for. Just bust it and move on."

"So what are we betting on?" Wyatt asked, and he really didn't want to sound quite so eager.

"The racing," Samuel said, nodding towards the TV while he checked his phone. "Just waiting for the tip."

"Right," he nodded, glancing at the roulette wheel uneasily, and his palms were itching. "While we're waiting, do you mind if I..."

Samuel shrugged, still staring at his phone. "Go for it."

* * *

"Is the roulette wheel rigged?" Basher asked curiously, gazing over Livingston's shoulder to the monitor, where Turk was just starting to spin the wheel. The other club goers milled around, gambling happily. It wasn't even clear where they'd all come from. Reuben's people, Saul's contacts, DannyandRusty's friends...anyone who was happy to be paid three hundred dollars for a night spent doing whatever came naturally.

Livingston shrugged, not looking up from the horse racing on the other screen. "I don't know...I don't think so."

"Be quite ironic if we're going through all this to get him to win, and he goes and busts us playing roulette, that's all," Basher said.

"Statistically, that's really unlikely," Livingston pointed out, as another race finished with the favourite winning, and that was no good. They needed something with good odds. Something that would make Wyatt sure that Linus' tips were the real deal.

Of course, statistically, _that _was quite unlikely too. But Saul assured him it happened all the time with dogs, so they should be okay.

"On the other hand," Basher went on, as Wyatt put a wad of cash on one number. "If he loses all his money before we even get started, we're up shit creek too."

Livingston wasn't listening. The latest race, the horse with the best odds had just fallen, and the one at twelve to one was overtaking everything. It looked like...maybe... As it crossed the line, he was already diving for his phone.

He sent the text. Now all he had to do was feed the recorded race footage through to the screens in the other room. There was only a five minute delay. Wyatt would never even realise.

* * *

"Ah!" Samuel said, smiling widely at his phone. "Here we go. Next race. Blue Eyed Wolfboy. Twelve to one."

Twelve to one? He couldn't stop the grin. Of course, he couldn't be certain that this was going to work. He shouldn't get carried away here. Not until he knew what was what.

"How much are you betting?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Five thousand," Samuel said hoisting his metal case meaningfully.

"Right," he nodded glancing at his own case. He thought he could match that.

Ten minutes later and he was watching the scowling manager counting out his winnings, his ridiculously manicured nails sliding over each bill in turn. Sixty thousand dollars. Oh, he could get used to this.

* * *

The day had been going perfectly normally, until Danny walked back into his room that night and found Rusty standing naked in front of a full length mirror, staring at his reflection earnestly.

He let the door slam shut behind him. "What are you doing?" he asked with interest.

Rusty didn't look round. "Terry said he saw a grey hair," he explained. "I'm looking for it."

Right. "Thought you said Terry was behaving himself?" he asked lightly.

"I can handle Terry," Rusty said dismissively, meeting Danny's eyes in the mirror.

Yeah. It wasn't like he exactly doubted that.

Rusty's eyes softened. "He's...unimportant, Danny. Nothing he says matters." His eyes drifted back down.

"And yet you're searching yourself for grey hairs," Danny pointed out dryly.

"I'm not finding any," Rusty said with a shrug.

He sighed and sat down on the end of the bed. "C'mere," he instructed.

Rusty turned around and walked over to him and he started looking carefully.

"You know, this is why people ask questions," Rusty commented.

"People saw this, they'd stop asking," he answered absently. "What are you going to do if you find a grey hair, anyway. Pluck it out?"

"No," Rusty said immediately. "Ow. That would _hurt._"

"Yeah." Danny shook his head. "You'll let yourself be beat half to death by some heavy with a grudge and never say a word, but the idea of plucking one little hair - "

" - you saying you would?" Rusty interrupted.

"Nah," he said, grinning. "Too late for me anyway." He brushed his hand ruefully over his head. Actually... "You know, maybe this suggests that I give you less to worry about than you give me."

"Oh, you give me plenty reasons to worry," Rusty returned. "Maybe I just freak out less often."

He raised an eyebrow. "You saying I freak out?"

Rusty's lips twitched. "Maybe now and then. When no one's looking."

"Well, _you, _don't have any grey hairs," he said, pushing Rusty away lightly. "Now put some pants on or something. Why were you doing this in my room anyway?"

"People always walk straight into my room," Rusty said with a shrug. "Figured I'd try and avoid adding to this rumour about me being an exhibitionist." He sat down on the bed beside Danny, without having noticeably put pants on in any way. "Linus called just before you came in."

"Did you - " Danny began with interest.

" - no, I didn't tell him I was naked," Rusty said, rolling his eyes. "Kid's having enough problems dealing as it is. Thought he was going to start on Terry, tonight."

Danny blinked. "Linus?" he said incredulously, then his eyes narrowed. "You know, you're not exactly adding weight to the whole 'Terry's nothing, I can handle him', thing."

"I _can_ handle him," Rusty said simply. "Linus was just in danger of getting stupid, that's all. You sort of stupid."

"Nice to know I have my own take on stupid," Danny said dryly, and he didn't know whether to be amused or concerned at the idea of Linus being protective of Rusty. Either way, it was surely reversing the natural order of things.

"Market is well and truly cornered," Rusty said affectionately. "Anyway, they got a bite almost right away and everything went off without a hitch. Wyatt is sixty thousand dollars up and thinks Samuel is some sort of genius."

He nodded. "Second convincer will - "

" - oh, he'll want to go all in," Rusty agreed.

They smiled at each other for a moment and then, without a word, Danny reached out for the remote, and Rusty grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses from the mini bar, and they settled easily back on the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is the second last chapter of this story! I think...**

* * *

Wyatt drummed his fingers against the wall uneasily. Ocean wasn't late yet, but he wasn't here either. And really, once a forgery was completed, and especially once it was _signed, _he wanted it off the premises as quickly as possible.

They looked good, even if he did say so himself. Some of his best work. Oh, an expert would be able to tell the difference, eventually, but Phillistines like Terry Benedict and Reuben Tishkoff? Not a hope. If Ocean could swap the paintings unnoticed, it could be _years _before it was discovered.

At half past on the dot the studio door opened without so much as a knock and Danny Ocean walked in, smiling. He barely nodded to Wyatt before strolling over to inspect the paintings.

Watt waited for a very long time, not even certain whether Ocean knew what he was looking for, but too nervous to consider interrupting.

"Yes," Ocean said at last. "These are excellent." He smiled at Wyatt like they were sharing some fantastic joke on the rest of the world. "They should do nicely."

"When will you make the switch?" he asked, smiling back simply because it was impossible not to.

"I'll give it a couple of months," Ocean – _Danny –_ said easily. "People tend to pay more attention to paintings that have just been moved. I want to give everything a chance to calm down. There's no rush."

That suited him just fine. After all, if everything went wrong he didn't want anyone to immediately think of him.

"'s important to seize the right moment," Danny went on. "Grab your luck while it's in." He shrugged. "Anyway. Here's your money." He passed over the briefcase. "Feel free to count it."

Wyatt opened the case and gazed inside. It was absolutely full of neatly stacked bills. Surreptitiously, he lifted the top layer, but it looked like it was all legit. He smiled. "Nah, that's okay. I trust you."

"Alright then," Danny nodded. "I guess we're done here. Been a pleasure doing business with you, Wyatt. I think this association is going to be very lucky for both of us."

Wyatt nodded eagerly. "If you're ever looking for any paintings in the future, or if you know anyone else who is..." He let the silence dangle hopefully.

"You'll be right at the top of my list," Danny confirmed.

Wyatt smiled as he left. It seemed as though Danny Ocean was everything people said he was. And he felt like he'd made a more than favourable impression. It was good to be on the same page as a man like that.

And Danny was right. His luck really was in. He should take advantage of that.

* * *

"Think he took the bait?" Rusty asked as Danny walked into the back room of the club.

Danny shrugged. "We'll see."

Rusty nodded brightly. "Linus is ready to go if you didn't get him," he said helpfully, perched on the edge of the desk.

Danny just looked at him. "We'll see," he said mildly. "Don't you have some clothes you could be removing right now?"

At that moment, as if he'd heard his name being mentioned, Linus called. Danny put it on speaker phone. "Wyatt just passed me, heading straight for you. Phase one is on!"

Danny raised an eyebrow. Rusty grinned. They had phases now.

* * *

Wyatt rapped smartly at the door and waited impatiently until the hatch was open. The manager from last night peered at him suspiciously. "Yeah?"

"Swordfish," he said confidently.

The man frowned, eyeing him carefully. "This is a private club. You're not a member."

No. Samuel hadn't put his name down yet. He gritted his teeth; this was lucky day, he just knew it, and if this asshole screwed it up for him... "Oh, come on," he pleaded. "I was here just last night."

"Wait," the man said slowly. "I remember, yeah. You won a bundle on Blue Eyed Wolfboy."

"That's right," he said smugly.

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the door swung open. "You interested in a game of poker?" the manager asked.

* * *

Rusty watched the poker game unfold with professional interest. Frank had it under tight control. Wyatt was winning nicely. Not so much at first to make it obvious, but now, an hour in, and Wyatt's expectations were raised, the pile of chips in front of him was growing all the time, and the stakes had increased tenfold. Right now, Wyatt felt like he couldn't lose. Frank was running the game masterfully. Not that that came as a surprise to Rusty; he and Frank had spent many a happy hour running tables. They'd been unstoppable, especially when Danny had been involved, both as another pair of hands and in charming and enticing the players in the first place...the marks hadn't known what hit them. Good times.

Looked as though Livingston, Basher and Yen were holding up alright too. None of them were exactly who Rusty would normally have chosen to put front and centre in a poker game. But it was more a case of figuring out exactly who Wyatt would recognise. There was eleven of them. You wouldn't _think _they'd have this problem.

He smiled. It was all going well. Another hour, and Wyatt's luck would change.

* * *

He'd been _winning. _He'd been winning all day. At one point he'd been close to fifty thousand dollars up for God's sake. And now all that had been snatched away. It had all turned on one hand. He'd had a straight, and with the way his luck was going he'd been willing to bet the farm. And then the little Chinese guy had been sitting on a heart flush, and he'd had to watch it all disappear. He'd been frantic to win it all back, but luck hadn't been with him and he'd thrown good money after bad.

Right at the moment he'd lost all the money he'd got from Danny. All of it. Every last cent.

He stared across the table, horror-struck. He was down to his last two hundred bucks.

The manager looked at his watch. "We're gonna start getting crowded soon," he commented. "Make this the last hand?"

There was a muttering of reluctant agreement round the table.

Wyatt swallowed and looked down at his money. Right. He had to make this count.

Ten minutes later and he was holding two thousand dollars. Now that was more like it.

"Bad luck, mate," the Brit said sympathetically.

He shrugged with a carelessness he didn't really feel. "Easy come, easy go," he said. "I'll win it all back."

The manager snorted derisively. "Yeah. Sure you will, bud. I've heard that before.

He pretended to smile and inside he was fuming. He still had Samuel's sure thing to count on. He'd win all his money back and much, much more.

He still had time to get to the bank before the class started. He'd see what he could scrape together, ready for the bet.

* * *

Once again Wyatt spent the class shooting him conspiratorial glances. Only now he seemed even more on edge than he was before, and when he came over to look at Linus' painting, he leaned in and asked. "We still on for tonight?"

Linus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Danny and Rusty had been right. Of course. Losing had only made Wyatt _more _eager to win his money back, even more effectively than if he'd won. Plus it had the not inconsiderable advantage of ensuring that it was his _own _money that he'd be giving them. And that thought made Linus warm inside.

"Not tonight," he said with an apologetic grimace. "My contact doesn't have anything until tomorrow, but apparently that's going to be something special, he says. I'm planning on betting big, don't know about you." He brightened. "Hey, but if you don't have any plans, I know this sports bar down the street. You could give me some tips on my art, yeah? "

Wyatt looked disappointed. "I - "

" - oh, well, if you're not _interested,_" Linus cut in dismissively.

"Wait!" Watt interrupted desperately, forcing a smile, obviously desperate to stay in his good books. "Yeah, that sounds good. We'll head out straight after class. And I'll join you for that bet tomorrow. I've got quite a bit of cash to put on myself."

Yeah, Linus knew. He'd followed Wyatt to the bank. Eighty six thousand dollars. Which, if Livingston was to be believed, was basically everything he had in the world. Which made the idea of taking it away from him all the sweeter. God, this con was making him vicious.

Or maybe he was just angry generally. They'd moved on to another pose today. Wyatt had asked Rusty to kneel down with his hands flat on the floor, and on seeing that Terry had smiled coldly and deliberately set up his easel directly in front of Rusty, so it looked for all the world like Rusty was kneeling at Terry's feet. Linus would be willing to bet that in Terry's head that was exactly what was happening.

Still, at least Terry was keeping his mouth shut, containing himself to looking Rusty straight in the eyes and smirking.

Thank God this was the last class they'd have to attend. Linus wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. Not least because the more he stared at Rusty naked, the weirder he felt talking to him afterwards.

He spent most of the session concentrating on the details of Rusty's hands, and trying his best to ignore Terry and to acknowledge Wyatt's ingratiating smiles. It was a relief when the class was finally over.

For once, Terry wasn't the first out of the door, hanging back and talking to Dennis. Not that Linus cared. His job was to get Wyatt out of here as fast as possible so that the way was clear for Rusty to do what had to be done.

Now he just had to suffer through an evening of Wyatt's company.

* * *

As soon as he saw Linus leading a reluctant-looking Wyatt out of the art centre, Rusty slipped into the office, the holdall in his hand. He glanced around quickly, but the office was clear. Which was a good thing, really. Being caught almost-naked somewhere he shouldn't be never seemed to work out well for him. Well, _almost _never.

Right. Time to get to work. Methodically, he lifted the perspex trophy off the desk, and replaced it with the identical copy from the holdall. Livingston had done a fantastic job copying it from the photos he'd took. Really, _he _couldn't see the difference. He spent a couple of minutes checking lines of sight, and he was just about ready to go, when the door opened.

He glanced up quickly, ready with a vacant smile and a story about wanting to leave some sketches for Wyatt to see in the morning, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw Terry Benedict, deliberately closing and locking the door behind him.

"Alone at last," Terry remarked, calmly pocketing the key.

Well, this was unexpected. Rusty looked at Terry for a long moment, his head tilted to one side. "You want something?"

In answer, Terry took a step forwards and deliberately looked him up and down, and Rusty was suddenly very aware that all he was wearing was a silk robe that barely came down to his thighs, and a pair of pink silk slippers. Oddly, he felt rather more vulnerable now than he had when he was naked.

"Maybe I do want something," Terry said, his eyes fixed on Rusty's. "Maybe I was enjoying watching you kneeling at my feet. Maybe I'd like a repeat performance. In private."

"Uh huh," Rusty said flatly, his mind racing.

"It seems to me as though Ocean makes a habit of taking what's mine," Terry went on, taking a couple of steps closer until he was within touching distance, and all he had to do was reach out and he'd be pinning Rusty against the desk. "I thought I might as well enjoy what's his. Since I _know _he has...exquisite taste."

He suppressed the bite of fury with an effort. He had to _think._ Terry remained entirely heterosexual. Fuck, Terry didn't look in the slightest bit aroused right now. This was all about power. Terry wanted him frightened and freaked out. He wanted him to run, simply so they would both always remember that he'd run.

Rusty didn't do what people wanted. Especially not Terry fucking Benedict.

"Why _Terry,_" he murmured, "I had no idea you felt that way." He took a step forwards, his eyes half closed, his hips swayed.

"What...what are you doing?" Terry asked, unexpectedly shrill.

"What you want," Rusty told him, running his tongue over his upper lip and leisurely undoing his robe, letting it fall open so Terry saw everything. "You want to have _fun, _right?" He leaned in towards Terry as though to kiss him, and it was right about the time he judged Terry had to have felt his breath on his neck that Terry jumped about a foot backwards.

"No!" he snapped. "I..." He glared, wild-eyed at Rusty as though he was waiting for some inspired line that would cut Rusty down to size once and for all.

Rusty merely smiled and shrugged the robe off his shoulders so it fell to the ground, pooled around his feet, and a second later Terry was at the door, fumbling desperately in his pockets for the key.

He finished watching Terry not-quite-run-away. Then he sighed, pulled the robe back on, glanced at the hidden camera in the perspex trophy, calmly pulled his phone out of the holdall and dialled the number.

"Hey, Rusty." Livingston didn't sound surprised to hear from him. And he sounded apologetic which really wasn't a good sign.

"Tell me you're the only person watching right now," he requested hopefully.

Livingston sighed and Rusty could picture the look on his face. "Sorry."

Fantastic. "Who's all there?"

"Uh, Turk, Virgil, Frank and Yen..." Livingston hesitated for a long moment then finished in a rush and a whisper. "AndDanny."

"Is he - " Rusty started with dread.

" - he's smiling a lot ," Livingston confirmed.

Rusty sighed. He knew how he was going to be spending _his _evening.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: And last chapter of this fic. Just to prove that not everything I write is impossibly long. And also because this is where the story ends. :)**

**A/N2:**** InSilva says I am only slightly here. *sulk***

* * *

As he'd figured, Rusty spent most of the night trying to talk Danny down from the ice cold heights of fury.

"You know he didn't lay a finger on me," he pointed out for the nineteenth time.

"Doesn't matter," Danny answered again tersely. "He was going to - "

He raised an eyebrow. " - you seriously think I couldn't take Terry Benedict in a fight?"

"I seriously think you shouldn't have to," Danny said levelly, and that was a little difficult to argue with. There was no justifying Terry's behaviour in Danny's eyes. Hell, it wasn't like _Rusty _was exactly happy with it himself, but he figured that all of Danny's instinctive responses came with a number of tiresome consequences.

"Terry's just trying to make me uncomfortable," he argued softly. "He's looking for a reaction. Let's try not give him what he wants, huh? It sets a very dangerous precedent."

Danny's lips were thin. "Tomorrow - "

" - oh, tomorrow goes ahead," he agreed at once. Now they had absolutely no need to feel guilty for taking revenge on Terry before he'd technically gotten around to screwing them over.

And hopefully that would be enough to satisfy Danny. It was just annoying that Terry's little foray into sexual harassment had come at a time when they were being caught on camera. Because maybe he might have got around to telling Danny at some point, but he'd have made sure they were a long way away from Vegas when he did.

"Terry's...insignificant," he reminded Danny. "He couldn't matter _less._"

"I should've never made you do this," Danny said heavily, looking away from him.

He looked at Danny. "Made?"

"You know what I mean," Danny said, leaning in closer to him on the sofa so their shoulders brushed lightly together.

"This was _our _idea," Rusty told him firmly. "And it's worked just fine. Terry's..." He shrugged. "Terry is Terry. And tomorrow he gets to see himself in a whole new light."

That won a smile from Danny at last.

Tomorrow would not be a good day for Terry. And, more importantly, tomorrow, between the club and the benefit, Wyatt would wind up losing his money, his reputation and everything that mattered to him.

Providing everything went to plan.

* * *

"You ready to do some gambling?" Samuel asked cheerfully as Wyatt met him outside Stars.

He smiled back. "Naturally." Really, Samuel was a bit of an idiot. It wasn't right that a fool like that had such a brilliant scheme. He wondered if there was a way he could get to Samuel's contact himself. Then he'd be calling the shots. Still, that was a thought for another time. Right now he had eighty six thousand dollars in a briefcase, and he was ready to become fantastically rich _and _have the pleasure of wiping the smile off that manager's face. "You said your contact had something special for today?"

"Yeah." Samuel nodded eagerly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The race fixers my friend knows normally just go with the second favourite, you know? Or something middle of the range like before. But every year or so, when they figure they can get away with it, they have some no hoper that's actually a dead cert and pay the favourites off. Result? A winner with impossible odds."

"And anyone who bets on him gets rich," he breathed.

"Exactly," Samuel grinned. "Now, come on. My contact won't hear till last minute again. We don't want to miss the start of the race."

No they certainly did not.

* * *

Rusty grinned to himself and took another swig of Red Bull as he watched Linus and Wyatt walk into the club on the monitor.

"Okay, Linus is in," he announced into his headset. "Everyone set? Turk, Virgil?"

"No problem," came the answer from Virgil.

"I looked better in the SWAT uniform," Turk complained.

Rusty grinned again. "We all did," he said nostalgically. He didn't need to look round to know that Danny was smirking from the other side of the room where he was watching the races. Livingston twisted round and shot him a look. He shrugged. "Frank?" he checked.

"Ready," Frank confirmed.

"Bash?" he said finally.

"Everything's set," Basher told him. "Just say the word.

Alright then. He looked over to Danny enquiringly.

"All three are still looking good," Danny confirmed, not looking up from the screen.

Good. Didn't matter if the horse won or lost this time around, but the margins were tight enough that it at least mattered whether or not it _started _reasonably. They had to make sure Wyatt wouldn't turn on Linus immediately...and afterwards he'd have enough to be thinking of.

"Sioux City Sally in the three thirty," Danny said decidedly after another minute. "Two hundred to one. First thirty seconds are just fine, although after that..."

"I'll get the feed lined up," Livingston said hurriedly.

"We'll be quick," Turk promised.

"From what I hear you always are," Virgil sniped.

Shaking his head, Rusty was already texting Linus.

* * *

Despite having heard the entire conversation, Linus carefully didn't announce the name until _after _he'd had sufficient time to actually read the text. "Sioux City Sally in the three thirty," he said in a hushed voice.

Wyatt glanced at the clock on the wall worriedly. "That's only five minutes," he hissed. "Come on."

Linus was already moving, heading up to where Frank was waiting at the counter. "Hundred thou on Sioux City Sally to win please," he said nonchalantly, handing over his briefcase.

Frank pursed his lips. "Two hundred to one? It's your money." He took the case, made a show of counting the cash, put it in the safe and then wrote out a betting slip and handed it to Linus. Behind him, Wyatt was bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently. Linus resisted the urge to grin at Frank and moved out of the way politely.

"Eighty six thousand. Sioux City Sally. To win," Wyatt blurted out. "_Quickly, _if you don't mind," he added, banging his case on the counter.

Frank raised an eyebrow and made no move to take the case. "There's an eighty five thousand maximum bet for non members," he told Wyatt coolly.

"You telling me you don't want to take my money?" Wyatt demanded, his voice high with indignation.

"I'm telling you we're only going to take eighty five thousand dollars of your money," Frank said in a tone of patient aggravation.

"Fine," Wyatt said with ill grace, taking the thousand dollars back.

Refusing to take a mark's money. Linus had to admit, this was a new one. "Come on, let's go watch our horse win," he told Wyatt cheerfully, laying his hand on Wyatt's shoulder. And that was the signal.

* * *

"Livingston," Rusty said, and Livingston was already playing the start of the race on the big screen in the main room. "Okay, Bash?"

"Fuses set," Basher confirmed.

"Turk, Virgil?"

"We're ready," Turk said.

He glanced at the monitors. Wyatt and Linus were watching the race.

Time to bring everything down. "Go," he said.

* * *

The explosion hit whilst Wyatt was eagerly watching the race, willing Sioux City Sally to break. He would swear the ground actually shook beneath his feet, and a second later the lights cut out and the room was filled with smoke. He stumbled backwards fearfully, his heart hammering in his chest.

"What was that?" Samuel demanded shrilly, grabbing Wyatt's arm in a bruising grip. "What's going on?"

He didn't know. A bomb? An earthquake? It wasn't impossible; everyone knew about the earthquake that had hit the night of the grand opening of the Bank. Oh, God, he didn't want to die!

"Police! Everyone down on the ground!" a voice bellowed, and there were armed police officers silhouetted in the doorway.

"It's a raid," Samuel said in a strangled whisper. "Oh, _fuck. _I can't afford to get arrested."

Neither could Wyatt. And even though they'd probably get off with a caution, just the fact that the police were involved...his reputation...oh, _God. _And if they dug deep enough, and found out about the inside betting...that was serious. They'd be lucky to get jail time and not just get flat up executed by the guys behind this.

"We have to get out of here," Samuel said wildly, echoing Wyatt's thoughts exactly.

They were right at the back of the room. Everyone was milling around. People were shouting and screaming. Could they make a break for it? Did he dare?

"Come on," Samuel said, hauling at his arm and dragging him towards the rest room.

He resisted, staring at the counter. "My money..." he protested feebly, and immediately shut up when Samuel looked at him. Right. What mattered was escaping.

The restroom was deserted, but there was a large window at the end of it.

"I'll see if I can get this open," Samuel said anxiously.

They didn't have _time. _He grabbed the garbage bin off the floor and slammed it against the window. The glass shattered everywhere.

"Or we could do that," Samuel said, nervously glancing over his shoulder.

Wyatt was already struggling to climb up and out. He more or less fell to the ground, his hands and knees lightly bleeding. He could hear Samuel struggling behind him, but he didn't slow down, he just took off running, gripped by the undeniable need to get away.

He could hear sirens and shouting not too far away. He swallowed hard. Let him get away. Oh, God, let him get away.

"Hey!" A shout behind him, and he half turned his head in time to see Samuel being forcibly tackled to the ground by two uniformed cops. He manage to raise his head and look up at Wyatt. "Help me!" he pleaded.

No chance. He ran and he didn't stop running until he was close to the other end of the strip. He stood panting and out of breath in an alley, doubled over, his hands on his knees, his chest aching. Eighty five thousand dollars – gone. Just like that, and no hope of getting it back. His contact to the race fixers – missing. And he didn't hold out much hope of seeing Samuel again either. Either he'd be in prison, or he'd be skipping town. Everything had just gone to hell, and the only consolation was he hadn't actually got arrested.

God, this was a nightmare. He looked at his watch and groaned. And after all that, he'd have to head straight to the art centre, get ready for the fundraiser and act like nothing was wrong.

* * *

Linus groaned and twisted his head around to look up at Turk and Virgil, dressed up in their cop uniforms and taking their time to actually get off him. "Guys...did you have to hit me so hard?"

"We had to make it look realistic," Virgil said unrepentantly as Linus struggled to his feet.

"You didn't want to risk Wyatt actually coming back to save you from the big bad cops, did you?" Turk added.

Virgil looked down at his brother. "Big? Really?"

A scuffle threatened to break out momentarily. "Guys," Linus said. They ignored him. "Guys!" he added a little louder and this time they looked round to see what he wanted at least. "Don't you think we should get back? We might be needed."

Unlikely – barring anything unforseen, their part should be done. But even if he wasn't involved, he wanted to watch. He wanted to see how it all turned out, after all.

They barely got a nod of acknowledgement when they arrived back. It looked like Danny, Rusty, Saul, Yen and Reuben had already left, but Livingston and Frank were sitting around the monitors, watching the action intently. Livingston had hacked the feed from the security camera in the gallery, and they had another monitor set up to show the view from the camera Rusty had planted in Wyatt's office.

"Is Wyatt back yet?" he asked.

"Not that we've seen," Frank said without looking round. "We're assuming he is going to go back to the office first."

Reuben snorted. "If he doesn't, he's a bigger fool than we thought."

Linus had spent quite a bit of time with Wyatt now. That wouldn't altogether surprise him.

Fortunately, at that moment, they saw Wyatt walk into the office and bend down over the safe.

They all leaned forwards as he keyed in the combination, watching intently.

"Eight six five two one," Livingston said into the microphone, as Wyatt swung the safe open and threw his last thousand dollars inside. "Bash, get ready to cut the power."

So far, so good.

* * *

The receptionist didn't even give Rusty a second glance when he walked into the art centre. He was familiar enough now to be part of the furniture, and that was exactly what he needed. Especially since she and the doorman were too busy being puzzled by the sudden, unexpected power failure that had left them reliant on the back up generators. Of course, they were worried about the lights being a bit dim and the AC being off, when really they should be worried about the cameras being off.

Half an hour until the fundraiser started, and that was more than enough time to stroll into the deserted gallery and stand carefully in front of Reuben's Van Gogh and Terry's Picasso, and wait for the commotion outside to reach him. That was Saul. Insisting that as the premier reporter for Art in America, he was entitled to see Wyatt for an interview right now.

He smiled; Saul should keep everyone distracted for at least ten minutes, and he quickly moved to the corner of the room and opened the narrow grille and looked up. The air duct was tiny. Completely impossible for anyone to fit inside, even the world's greatest greaseman. But there was a crawlspace immediately above that was wider, and it was from there that the self-declared world's greatest greaseman was glaring down at him.

He grinned and held out a hand, and Yen dropped the two rolled up forgeries down to him.

Okay. He had to move fast. Saul couldn't keep everyone out forever. He made the switch as quickly as he could, and stood back for a moment to check that everything was exactly as it had been when he walked in. Looked good. It was a pity, really...Wyatt really was an excellent forger.

Hurriedly, he picked the genuine paintings up and took them back to the grille. There was a clamp dangling on a wire, and he attached them and gave it a tug, and Yen reeled it up quickly. He waited until the paintings were in Yen's hand. "Thought you hated fishing, Amazing." He grinned at the hand gesture that came his away an calmly shut the grille behind him and walked back into the centre of the room. "Basher..." he murmured, and a second later the lights blinked and shone brighter as the power came back on.

Now he was ready for the party.

* * *

After the disaster of this afternoon, Wyatt was surprised that the fundraiser seemed to be going so well. He'd barely had enough time to shower and change before everything had kicked off. Starting with his interview with Richard Falcon from Art in America. He didn't think they'd actually got around to scheduling an interview, but somehow he'd been late for it. Thankfully Falcon hadn't seemed to mind and the questions had been flattering and he'd allowed him to talk about himself and his work and his dreams at length.

It seemed like Falcon was impressed, and now he found himself holding court with a gaggle of journalists. Art and lifestyle correspondents from the local outlets, mainly. But they all seemed impressed with the art and the company, and the elegant waitresses with their trays of champagne and canopies. He sighed with happy relief. So maybe he'd screwed up with the racing, but he was certain he could turn the good publicity from tonight into cold hard cash.

He frowned as he suddenly spotted Danny Ocean from across the room. That was...odd. What was he doing here? And it looked like he was on crutches too. Excusing himself from Falcon for a moment, he hurried across and was accosted by Reuben Tishkoff. "Wyatt! This is a good party you got going. My painting looks good on your wall. Not thinking of keeping it, are you?"

He laughed politely. "No, no. You'll have it back tomorrow as planned." And then a few months later, the man standing next to you will steal it. God, Tishkoff was such a fool.

Tishkoff noticed him looking at Danny. "Oh, this is my friend, Danny Ocean. He's just passing through. Danny, this is Wyatt Traynor, our gracious host."

"Nice to meet you," Danny smiled, shaking his hand like they'd never laid eyes on each other. Wyatt did his best to imitate him. "I was visiting Reuben and he was nice enough to invite me along tonight."

"I see you've hurt your leg?" Wyatt said curiously.

"Fell down the stairs," Danny said with a tight smile. "Occupational hazard."

Huh. He supposed _falling down the stairs _would be. He smiled to himself, revelling in knowing something no one else did.

* * *

Terry looked across the room to where Ocean and Tishkoff were talking to Wyatt. Seemed like they were making progress with their little scheme.

From what they'd said, they would have already stolen the paintings at this point. They'd just be waiting for the right opportunity to plant them.

Ocean had a set of crutches. And as pleasant as it was to consider that maybe he'd met with some kind of _accident, _it was far more likely that the paintings were concealed in them.

He met Rex's eyes for a moment and Rex nodded grimly to him.

Rex was his newest hire. An ex cop with all the skills that suggested, and more importantly, someone that none of Ocean's band of troublemakers would recognise.

He'd follow Ocean, and when Ocean made the switch, he'd let Terry know. Ocean's people and Wyatt would be caught together. His enemies all dealt with at once.

That would be a very good day indeed.

* * *

Linus grimaced at the monitor. It wasn't looking good.

"Too many reporters," Livingston said nervously. "He's not going to be able to get away without someone seeing."

"Anyone able to provide a distraction?" Linus asked.

"Already on it," Rusty answered calmly.

* * *

Rusty was conscious of the effort it was taking Danny not to look at him as he crossed the room, but it wasn't as if he actually needed eye contact to know what Danny was thinking. Disapproval and concern topped by amusement, resignation and a healthy dose of righteous satisfaction.

Terry Benedict was standing by himself in a corner, apparently having just finished up talking on his cell phone. Checking in with his staff, no doubt, making sure nothing had caught fire in his absence. Terry was such a control freak, and Rusty resolutely ignored his own rising phone bill.

When Terry saw him coming his eyes flickered. A hint of panic and worry, and Rusty had no doubt he was remembering last night.

"Hello, Terry, " he murmured, his eyes dancing. "I thought since you're so intent on helping with this job, you wouldn't mind providing a distraction."

Terry glared at him with an expression of deep seated and entirely justified mistrust. "What sort of distraction?"

"Don't worry," Rusty assured him. "Just act naturally."

He drew his hand back, conscious of everyone around him.

The loud _crack _was satisfying. The look on Terry's face, even more so.

"Mr Benedict!" he said loudly, into the suddenly silent room, his voice high pitched and quivering with absolute outrage. "Keep your hands to yourself, please."

* * *

Linus stared blankly at the monitor. Rusty had just slapped Terry Benedict. _Rusty _had just slapped _Terry Benedict. _

He turned to Livingston. "We're dead, aren't we?"

"Uh huh," Livingston agreed dully.

"Least no one's looking at anything else," Frank said optimistically.

* * *

It took Terry twenty minutes to make it absolutely clear to the assembled crowd, and _especially _the journalists, that the little incident with Ryan had been a misunderstanding, nothing more. He wasn't in the habit of groping life models, certainly not male ones, and definitely not ones as infuriating as Robert Charles Ryan. He managed to calm himself by imagining exactly what he would do to Ryan when this was over. Perhaps he would make sure that Ryan stayed out of prison, just so he could send his people to bring him back in order that he could personally explain to Ryan exactly what he thought of this indignity.

Let them have their moment of triumph and invulnerability. Very soon he'd bring their world crashing down around them.

Rex gave him a nod and he smiled coldly to himself. He had them right where he wanted them. Time to call in the Las Vegas PD.

* * *

Danny smiled. The real paintings were planted. Now all that was required was for someone to unearth the fakes. That was Saul's cue.

He broke off from holding court on the wonders of art revival to gaze closely at the Van Gogh, a blatantly-obvious puzzled frown on his face. "Is everything alright?" Reuben asked loudly, attracting the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity.

"There's something wrong with this painting," Saul said even louder, attracting the attention of everyone in the _room. _"It's a fake."

"That's impossible," Reuben said firmly. "I had it valued just last week to check the insurance for the exhibition. It was absolutely genuine then. Are you sure, Mr..."

"Richard Falcon. Art in America," Saul introduced himself. "Acknowledged expert in Van Gogh's early work. And I'm telling you, Mr Tishkoff. Your painting may well have been genuine last week, but if that's the case, this is _not _your painting."

There was a suitable gasp from all around them, and a couple of quick-thinking journalists started taking pictures. Danny smiled to himself; they hardly needed to orchestrate this part of the con. Mob mentality would do it for them.

"What's going on?" Wyatt demanded, pushing his way through the crowd.

"Apparently, since it's been in your care, my priceless painting has turned into a fake," Reuben told him, his eyes narrowed.

"Impossible," Wyatt said with a nervous laugh, and Danny wasn't so sure he could look guiltier if he actually _tried. _

"This one too," Saul announced authoritatively, moving over to the Picasso.

"No," Wyatt blurted out instantly. "No, they're genuine. They have to be." He stared at Danny, a look of panic and confusion on his face, obviously trying to figure out how to accuse Danny without incriminating himself.

Fortunately, Terry Benedict was on hand to save him the trouble. He swept over with a couple of cops close behind. "Of course the paintings are fake," he announced disparagingly. "That was Wyatt's plan all along. He's working with Ocean there, and I can prove it."

Danny smiled. "I seriously doubt that."

"The real paintings are in Wyatt's studio," Terry went on, talking to the police sergeant beside him. "My man saw Ocean putting them there himself."

The man in question stepped forwards. "Rex, Stevens, Las Vegas PD. Retired. On Mr Benedict's instructions I followed the suspect to the art studio. He walked in and was inside for several minutes."

The cops looked at him. Danny shrugged. "I was looking for the rest rooms. Got caught up looking at Wyatt's latest painting. It's very...interesting."

"Well," the police sergeant said. "Seems to me that we should go and see if the paintings are in this studio." He looked at Danny and Watt in turn. "If they are, then it looks very bad for both of you."

Danny nodded cheerfully. Terry was right on schedule to try and screw them over. He followed the police round to the studio along with everyone else. Wyatt made a break for the front door and was grabbed by a couple of cops and brought back, struggling and protesting.

At this point, he might as well have written a signed confession.

Terry's lip was curled as he looked at Danny. "Now we'll see," he said viciously, flinging the studio door open.

They saw.

Right, smack in the centre of the room, mounted on an easel was a copy of 'The Birth of Venus'. With Terry Benedict's face in the place of Venus'.

Danny had to admit, Marc had really excelled himself.

"Now that's disturbing," Reuben commented.

"Private commission for you, Terry?" Rusty murmured.

Terry was just standing, gazing at it in evident disbelief. "That's...but that's not..."

"It's certainly not illegal," Danny said calmly. He smiled at the police sergeant brilliantly. "But I'm sure you can understand why having accidentally opened a door, I was startled enough to want a closer look."

"Yeah," the cop said, sounding dazed, staring from the painting to Terry. "Yeah."

From behind them, there was the sound of hushed giggling and a steady flash of camera phones.

One of the cops searching the studio gave a shout and held up a bundle of papers.

Half finished copies of the Van Gogh and the Picasso. Apparent practice runs, more of Marc's excellent work. Danny had planted them while he'd been planting Venus Terry.

The cops moved away from Danny towards Wyatt. "Where are the paintings?" the sergeant demanded. "Come on, what have you done with them?"

"I don't know..." Wyatt stammered.

"He's got an office across the hall," Rusty offered.

The circus moved across the hall, Terry silently fuming.

"Right. Get that safe open?" the sergeant ordered.

"Of course," Wyatt agreed with growing confidence. "But there won't be anything here. Only I have the combination."

The safe swung open to reveal the Picasso and the Van Gogh, exactly where Saul had planted them, neatly rolled up and waiting.

"No!" Wyatt burst out. "Not, that's impossible. I...I..." He looked like he was having the worst day of his life. Probably he was. After all, that was the point.

"Wyatt Traynor, you're under arrest on a charge of forging and grand larceney. You have the right to..."

Danny managed to resist the urge to grin.

Wyatt was broke, under arrest, his reputation shot to hell. And, incidentally, Terry was confused and humiliated.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

Later at Reuben's, and there was beer and pizza and an air of celebration.

"You know what I don't get?" Reuben commented. "When we went into Wyatt's studio, I was expecting to see those paintings Wyatt did of you."

Rusty just smiled.

"Danny removed them," Saul deduced.

Removed and destroyed. Might be art, but they were also _evidence. _

"I've still got mine," Linus announced with a strange mixture of apology and smugness.

"That's okay," Rusty told him. "I've seen yours. I'm completely unrecognisable."

"Hey!" Linus protested half-heartedly, and shrugged.

"So," Turk asked, elbowing Linus in the ribs. "You seen anything you like?"

"Nothing I ever want to see again," Linus said fervently.

"It's Rusty, you're bound to at some point," Livingston said with a shrug.

"Still not an exhibitionist," Rusty objected mildly.

"Benedict still has his painting, right?" Frank asked, frowning.

Rusty shrugged. "His is almost as bad as Linus'."

"I'm not that bad," Linus muttered sullenly.

"Not to mention - " Rusty continued smoothly, as though there'd been no interruption.

" - Oh, Terry has enough to worry about," Danny finished, smiling sharply.

The rumours had already started spreading. Plenty of people were laughing at Terry Benedict tonight.

Yen stared pointedly at Rusty and asked whether Terry was likely to come after them.

"Nah," he said easily. "He was slightly upset to realise that his little proposition was caught on camera. Bit hard for him to argue that it was unprovoked." That had bothered Terry but not nearly as much as the expression Danny had been wearing when they'd told him about it. Rusty hadn't been able to hear exactly what Danny said, but judging by the way Terry had paled, Danny had managed to get his feelings across precisely.

Linus cleared his throat loudly. They all turned to look at him. "I just wanted to say..." he began awkwardly. "I mean, I know you all..." He struggled a second and then seemed to give up. "Thanks, guys," he said simply.

"Anytime, mate," Basher said sincerely.

Rusty grinned. "You can even hide out at The Standard when your parents find out," he offered generously.

"Oh, that's not going to happen," Linus said confidently. A second later his phone started ringing. He glanced at it and paled before answering it. "Uh, hi, Dad..."

Rusty looked around. "Two hours and forty minutes. Pay up."

Eight rounds of scowls and muttering as they dug into their pockets. He grinned at Danny. Revenge was fun.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed that, please review**


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